


Who Here Can Actually Tie A Bow Tie

by BabelTongue



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Modern/Human AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 09:36:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5622580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabelTongue/pseuds/BabelTongue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver and Merrill get ready for a New Year's Eve party at Merrill's apartment.</p><p>Prompt: Person A has never seen Person B in a tuxedo/ball gown before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Here Can Actually Tie A Bow Tie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jumpforjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumpforjo/gifts).



Merrill counted them all out on her fingers again. Eleven of them. Seven at the beginning of the evening but the rest would trickle in before the big count down.

Onetwo. Isabela and Zevran. Couldn’t pull them apart so Merrill supposed she might just count them as one big entity. Maybe she would nominate her thumb as the onetwo. It _was_ thicker than her other fingers after all. Sort of like two people joined at the hip if all her other fingers were regular sized people without a partner.

She briefly wondered if her fingers got lonely.

No. Probably not. Especially not the thumbs.

Back to counting.

Three. Anders was going to be there because _sure, fine,_ it’s not like he had anything _better_ to do. Index finger.

Four. Fenris promised to be the designated driver. It really was a pity, she thought, that he didn’t have a licence or a car. Or enough self control to deny a bottle of wine if it was offered to him. Middle finger- but not in the _bad_ way or anything. Just in a counting way.

Five. Hawke. Good. Hawke felt safe.

Six. Isabela-

Wait

No. Isabela had already been counted.

She uncurled her fingers in frustration and pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. From somewhere deeper in the apartment Carver groaned and slammed a cabinet door shut. He really needed to stop being so rough, she thought. At some point or another he was just going to tear out a light fixture or punch a hole in the wall and she might as well just kiss her safety deposit goodbye- Although she supposed she kissed it goodbye when she painted the giant mural of wildflowers on the living room wall- Still, it was the principal.

Again.

Isabela and Zevran, onetwo. Anders, three. Fenris and Hawke, four, five. Varric, such a sweet thing who reserved a whole ballroom for all of them to drunkenly humiliate themselves in, was number six. Bethany-

“Merrill!” And Carver’s voice pulled her out another pattern of concentration. Oh, she was going to have words with that boy.

“What is it, Hawke?” She yelled in the general direction of the hallway, bathroom, or whatever room Carver had locked himself into.

“You got aftershave?”

“No!”

“Oh.”

Merrill glanced back and forth between her hands, one limply curled into a fist, the other sprawled out where each finger was meant to represent one of her friends.

Again.

Zevran and Isabela. Onetwo.  
Anders. Three.  
Fenris-

“Okay, but why not?”

Oh yes, very strong words.

“Why not _what_?” Her voice rose a few octaves and Carver could have sworn she was trying to imitate a dog whistle.

“Why don’t you have aftershave?”

“Because I don’t shave my face, Carver. I don’t really need to. “

“Oh! Right. That makes sense.”

Zevran and Isabela. Onetwo.  
Anders. Three  
Fenris. Four.  
Big Hawke. Absolute sweetheart Hawke. Hawke that doesn’t scream about aftershave. Five.  
Varric. Who went to the trouble of formal invitations and seven months reservation for a very nice ballroom at one of those fancier hotels downtown. It was a small ballroom, but _still_. Six  
Bethany. Seven.  
Aveline and Donnic. Eight. Nine. They were going to be a bit late. They were always a bit late.

Her and Little Hawke. Ten. Eleven.

“Hey! Merrill! I have a question.” This time Carver sounded much closer than the bathroom.

Right! Right. “I have lotion under the bathroom sink. It smells like lavender and peasblossom- If you need it.”

“Oh? Do you think I need it?” And then he was there. Well, not all of him. Just his head poking out from the archway leading to the hall. A few bits of toilet paper were stuck to his chin where he had cut himself shaving, the dark red stains in the center giving testament to just how shitty Merrill's razors were. She really should have invested in some better ones, or better yet Carver could have finally brought over his own (Along with a toothbrush, amongst other things.) “Like, you don’t think my skin is too rough or anything, right? Should I use it? I’ll go use it. You’re right.”

“I meant as an aftershave substitute! You don’t need to! I think your skin is quite soft on it’s own!”

Merrill could only describe the noise that came out of his mouth as ‘a few distressed kittens’ or maybe ‘a few distressed kittens being pet much too vigorously’- Which sounded exactly like something Anders would do. Shame on him.

“Thanks. You too.” Carver was turning an absolutely _lovely_ shade of bright pink as he ducked back into the archway. “Anyway, that’s not what I had a question about.”

“Oh what’s wrong then?” Merrill asked. Again, his head (and only his head) appeared a few seconds later.

“Can you tie a bowtie?”

“Yes. Can’t you?”

“Well. No. That would be why I’m asking.”

“Right! Of course! Sorry.”

“Would you mind?”

“Not at all.” Merrill took a few steps towards the hallway as Carver finally stepped into the living room so that more than just his head was visible and- Oh my.

Oh my.

This. _This_ was very far from old jeans and ratty tank tops with sweat stains down the sides. _This_ was not her Carver- The one who laid around her living room in boxers for 18 hours straight. Well maybe it _was_ her Carver, but better groomed and better dressed.

He even smelled like meadows!

It wasn’t the perfect outfit, but it was certainly close. Maybe it was because Carver had only ever worn a tuxedo a total of three times in his life, or maybe it was because he just didn’t really have an eye for these sort of things, but the pants and jacket seemed to be just a hint too tight.

Not that Merrill was complaining.

Not that she was complaining _at all._

The outfit itself was fairly traditional. White shirt. Black jacket and pants with a matching bowtie. Same old thing every boy wore when they wanted to fancy themselves up for a night. Or for a wedding. Or a funeral. Or just because they felt like looking pretty.

Merrill wished Carver felt like looking pretty more often. He _was_ pretty. Probably the prettiest.

Carver cleared his throat and Merrill realized she had been staring. Not the bad sort, but the gross, mushy sort. The crying-at-a-wedding sort. Carver, apparently, did not understand the difference.

There was the red again, covering his ears and filling his cheeks. Poor thing.“I can- I’ll go change.”

He turned back towards the hallway, or at least he tried before Merrill grabbed the two ends of his tie to keep him from escaping into the bedroom. “No! No you don’t, Carver Hawke! You look fine! Very fine! The best!”

He made the distressed kitten sound again, only this time it was louder and caused his shoulders to drop. It was aggressively _fuller_ than last time. Kittens, she thought, but bigger, like cats (The most logical conclusion). Maybe, also, they were on a motorcycle or going through the wash cycle or something.

Or a rhino. A big, huffy rhino. That’s what he was.

Either way, Carver really needed to learn how to control his noises.

“Here,” She began pulling the fabric around his neck into knots and loops until it looked at least _somewhat_ decent. It had been a few years since she had done this, so she hoped Carver would forgive the sloppiness.

He would. She knew he would.

“I meant it, you know! You look very nice.” She began, smoothing down his shirt and running her fingers over his collar. His jacket had already been buttoned and every time he moved his shoulders it would stretch just _so nicely_ over his chest. Small blessings.

After a few more seconds of fiddling around she stepped back to examine her handiwork. It was then that she noticed that the piece of fabric poking out of his jacket pocket wasn’t white. It wasn’t even blue, as she had suggested (For his eyes, she had tried to explain. To match.) The handkerchief was emerald green and _did not_ fit the rest of his outfit even slightly.

“What’s this?” Merrill pulled the swatch of fabric from his pocket, unfolding it in the process.

“Wait, don’t,” Carver grabbed the handkerchief before another thought had the chance to leave Merrill’s mouth. He began hastily folding it again.

“But it doesn’t match.”

“Yes- Yes it does.” He shoved it back into his pocket. “It matches your dress. I- Bethany told me to try it.”

“Oh, Carver.” Merrill’s voice was almost a song. “Thank you, but you don’t have to do that.”

“No. I want to. I like it. I like-” For a few seconds he didn’t look towards her. In fact, he seemed _very_ interested in the pattern on her couch. “I like matching. I like it when people know we’re together. I want people to think we look like a couple, you know?”

“You want people to know we’re together?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, so-do you want our friends to know we’re together?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want Hawke to know?”

“Yeah. Garrett will get it.”

“And Varric and Aveline and Isabela?”

“Yeah. I want them to know.”

Her smile was warm. Probably one of the warmest Carver had seen, but it was so hard to compare it to the thousands of others she had given him.

“Do you want to kiss me at midnight then?”

He nodded “Yeah. Definitely.” And bent down to press a his lips against her forehead in a chaste kiss. 

They could save the not-chaste one for midnight. 


End file.
